


ring around the rosie.

by thychesters



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), Birds of Prey (Comic), Nightwing (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Hallucinations, Held at Gunpoint, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, More tags to be added, On the Run, WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP, Waking up Restrained, Whumptober 2020, batfam being put through the wringer, caged, cw for mentioned child abuse (ch. 5), manhandled, rip everyone but we're not getting through this month without a couple bumps and bruises
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:47:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26750869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thychesters/pseuds/thychesters
Summary: —ashes, ashes, we all fall down.(whumptober 2020prompts, featuring everyone's favorite batfam. rip guys)
Relationships: Batfam Members
Comments: 15
Kudos: 125





	1. waking up restrained. (dick)

**Author's Note:**

> i make no promises of doing all of these but... i'm trying, lmao; i have other prompts in mind so we might put more of a spooky spin on things to keep with the season!
>
>> No 1. LET’S HANG OUT SOMETIME  
>  **Waking Up Restrained** | Shackled | Hanging

Dick comes to with a groan, which, unfortunately, is pretty standard fare for him. The strain in his back and awkward angle of his neck is a dead giveaway he’d fallen unconscious in otherwise unfavorable circumstances. He gives himself a cursory once-over: the curl of his toes in his boots followed by the subtle flex of fingers against his restraints. On his next breath he pays close attention to the expansion of his ribs and the bruises he can feel forming on his left side, likely from where he’d landed. It coincides with the ache crawling along the back of his skull and spreading behind his eye.

He presses his tongue to the back of his teeth and finds it feels like he’s bitten it. Though muffled, he can make out murmurings from the other side of the wall, but he can’t discern the words. He opens his eyes and finds they’ve left the mask on him at least.

“And who says chivalry is dead,” he says around a sigh, sitting up to roll his head back along his shoulders. Dick sniffs, taking in a rather lackluster room and the rather lackluster situation. He blows a raspberry, and the chair creaks as he tries to stretch out as best he can, despite his legs being attached to those of the chair.

The restraints only allow so much give when he tests them again, clenching his fists against the arms of the chair. He curses once under his breath, debating the merits and ramifications of dislocating his thumb in order to slip his hand free, and then whether doing so is worth it since his glove is still attached.

The door opens in a dramatic sort of fashion, and Dick would expect nothing less, so he breaks out a grin simply for the sake of getting under his skin.

“Aw, Harv, I _knew_ you missed me.”

“Sure, kid,” Two-Face says, mouth twisted into his ever present scowl; Dick can hear him hiss through his teeth on his not-great side. Dent shifts out of the shadow, stepping toward him and into the dim light like he’s about to ask where he was on the night of the twenty-third like some good cop/bad cop routine he still hasn’t perfected. Dick never knew the Harvey Dent from the glory days of old. But then based on their last few run-ins with one another, he has little interest in playing the ‘getting to know you’ game since it usually comes with a few broken ribs. A couple of Two Face’s goons crone in the background, probably coming up with their own guesses as to what the boss’ next move is. “Maybe this time I won’t.”

“Promises, promises.”

His side still aches; it’s a little more difficult to focus on Harvey’s face(s) than it usually is, and Dick barely withholds the remark _and thank God for that_.

The pieces from the night before (or the same night? Calendar Man isn’t exactly here to keep him up-to-date) come together slowly: patrol with Robin while Bruce played Bruce Wayne, Airhead Extraordinaire with some socialites. There was an apprehension of a couple run-of-the-mill muggings and splitting some fries from Pauli’s on the roof of one of the cathedrals. He’d sent Robin back in early, and his beeline to the Clocktower had been cut short by—

Dent’s gang going to town on a damn ATM at the First Bank of Gotham, of all things. Dick snorts. Loudly.

“That’s the problem with progress, huh? Everything’s automated these days. So impersonal.” Dent’s face is unreadable, but when isn’t it, he thinks. “What’s wrong, they stop letting your ugly mug into the bank so you decided to pass the time by having your guys attack the computer out front? You couldn’t even be bothered to show up until _after_ I got there. Oh how the mighty have fallen.”

“Think you’re really funny, don’t you?”

“Hilarious, actually,” Dick says, twisting his neck again with a resounding crack. Nausea rolls across the back of his tongue as his head pulses. “Aren’t you supposed to call me punk? _Think you’re really funny, don’t you, punk?_ has more of a punch to it. _That_ would actually hurt me and make me think about what I did. Otherwise you sound more conversational, and you and I _both_ know we haven’t gotten to that point in our relationship yet. After all these years you never even bothered to ask what my favorite color was.”

He leans back in his chair as best he can. The shadow cast over Dent’s face masks some of the unblemished skin. Surely someone’s coming for him. They have to have put the pieces together by now.

“I’ll give you a hint.”

The scowl twists into a grin, one that Dick would have found more unsettling had they not been doing this same song and dance for years. Robin had been afraid of him once. Once.

Dick just returns it with a smirk of his own. Internally it falters because the back of his head is still throbbing. One of his finer parting gifts from the likes of Two-Face, he supposes.

Dent shifts and Dick almost sighs again at the sight of the bat he brandishes. Same song, same dance, just a different verse. The murmurings in the other room take on a different pitch, ones that sound more frenzied, like hushed, nervous whispers.

“I’m gonna take a swing with this and let you guess what’s going to break first.”

“Don’t you have to flip a coin for that? Figure out if you’re gonna swing left-handed or right-handed?” He asks. The grin quickly morphs into a frown, a grimace, and then a pained grunt that turns into a wheeze the first time the bat connects. He drags in his next breath, trying to decide what hurts more now: his head or his chest.

“Where are the quips now?” Dent grits out, air hissing through his teeth and pockmarks in his cheek again. Dick’s tongue darts out to wet his lip.

“You want a baseball joke or one of our usual ones?” he wheezes. Dent’s stance shifts, as does his grip on the bat, and Dick braces himself for impact. “Not really fair when you’re hitting someone who can’t fight back.”

His next swing connects with the side of his face, when he’s unable to duck away in time, movements still restricted. The chair moves, feet grinding against the floor, and Dick’s chin ducks into his chest as he spits into his lap. His head spins just a little faster, like it’s reaching terminal velocity. He hisses as Dent drags blunt nails against his scalp, grabbing his hair by the roots as he yanks his head back. One of the lenses in his mask is cracked, and Dick peeks at Dent through it, dragging in a breath through his teeth. It’s a little more labored than he’s comfortable with.

He swallows and the corner of his mouth quirks.

“You hear that?”

From where he crouches beside him, Dick can make out a barely there glint in the shadows over Dent’s shoulder. It’s almost imperceptible, and through the haze of pain there comes a spark of relief. There is absolute silence from the next room, and it would be unsettling were he in Dent’s shoes.

Dick laughs a little, just before Dent shoves his head away and likely takes a few hairs with him.

“Exactly,” he says, lifting his head in defiance as Dent comes to stand before him again. He smiles, even if his head aches and feels like it’s being split in half. “Guess you really shouldn’t have pissed off my sister.”


	2. kidnapping. (barbara)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > No 2. IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY   
> “Pick Who Dies” | Collars | **Kidnapped**
>> 
>> cw for brief child endangerment

Barbara Gordon is six years-old the first time she is kidnapped. Later, she will wonder how many times she was targeted purely for namesake as the Commissioner’s daughter. It isn’t one of Batman’s rogues who goes after her, not a zealot vying for a masked man’s attention.

No, instead it is one of her father’s friends.

Officer Adams greets her after school, a fresh-faced rookie set on changing the world in Gotham. He’s following in the footsteps of the Captain with eyes too bright for a too dark city. Because he’s not a stranger Barbara smiles when she sees him on the front steps of Gotham Elementary and waves back to him. He’s taught her the trick to the vending machine by the evidence lockup, and she thinks he’s particularly good at Go Fish. Her dad got caught up at work, he says, which she thinks nothing of because it isn’t unusual for him, but she does hesitate a little.

“Where’s Harvey?” she asks with a slight frown, because typically if dad’s busy Detective Bullock comes to get her instead, and sometimes he lets her ride shotgun in his car even if she’s not supposed to.

“He’s helping your dad out,” Adams says, and Barbara starts to nod before frowning. Adams crouches down before her, extending his pinky. “I know this is a little unconventional, but your dad has a big case with the Bat-guy and asked me to come get you in time for dinner. It’s spaghetti night, right?”

“Batman,” Barbara corrects, and then she nods fully. “Yeah! He said he’s gonna make meatballs.”

“Awesome,” he says, and after a moment she reaches over to interlock her own pinky finger with his much larger one. Once she lets go he moves back to stand to his full height, reaching for the radio on his shoulder. He glances down at her with a grin before he drawls: “Captain, Captain, this is Adams reporting. Sir, the package in en route. I repeat, the package is en route.”

And Barbara laughs before he leads her back to his squad car. The radio crackles but she can’t make out the words. She has him hold her hand as they cross the street and he frowns for a second before complying. Barbara climbs into the backseat because she isn’t tall enough for the front, and he waits until she’s buckled to close the door.

As they drive she makes small talk about her day, and he hums accordingly as she tells him about the book she’s reading, the lunch dad packed for her, and he glances in the rearview when she holds up the stuffed rabbit she brought with her for show and tell.

“It isn’t a lot, but I didn’t know what else to bring,” she says after she tells Adams his name is Theodore, tucking him back into her bag. “I already brought the batarang daddy let me have, but it’s also dull and I can’t bring that again because it’s boring.”

She shrugs, and Adams makes an amused sound from the front seat. He turns down a street she doesn’t recognize, but one she figures leads in the opposite direction from the GCPD because they turned right, not left.

“Hey, where are we going?”

“Going to see your dad,” he says while Barbara hooks her fingers into the space where the window meets the door and peers out of it.

“Are we going to a crime scene? Daddy says I’m not allowed to go to those.”

“Sure.” It sounds like there’s a grin in his voice, and Barbara sits back in the seat as she watches him.

Barbara reaches into her bag and closes her fingers around one of the arms of her stuffed rabbit.

Turns out she’s right, partly. It’ll be considered a crime scene later, after a window has shattered and a man’s been thrown through cheap plaster.

For now, though, she sits tucked into the closet Adams shoved her into in the far corner of a derelict apartment. Paint peels off the walls and there are cracks deep enough that the insulation and framework peek through like the whole place is threatening to burst at the seams. Her screams, at first muffled by his hand while he cursed at her struggling and kicking at him, blend in with the rest of their surroundings, if they’re even heard at all.

Barbara’s hands and toes hurt from where she’s been hammering on the door, alternating between kicking it and pounding on it with her fists. Her throat hurts after hollering for so long, and she hiccups when Adams slams on the door and tells her to shut it.

Barabra sniffs, slumping onto the floor beside her backpack as she stares at the door in the dark. She worries Theodore in her hands, smoothing down his fur and absently toying with his ears. It isn’t quite as soothing as it could be, as it usually is when she plays with him at night when she can’t sleep. The floor creaks outside the closet and she holds him a little closer, curls up on herself a little tighter, pulling her knees to her chest.

She wants her dad. She waits for him to burst into the room, for him to kick in the door and scoop her up, tell her he’s taking her home, that she’s safe, that nothing bad is going to happen to her ever again.

But he doesn’t.

She recognizes Adams’ voice, like he’s on the phone with someone, or the radio, and she makes out him telling someone he’s proving himself, or a point, or something about her dad because Gordon needs to learn how this city really works. She can’t really tell for certain because then he moves to the next room.

Suddenly he yells, and Barbara flinches with a gasp as he hits a far wall.

At the sound of movement, footsteps coming her way, she shuffles into the corner farthest from him, kicking her backpack away. She holds Theodore to her with one arm as she digs her heels in to propel herself.

She sits there, wide-eyed and immobile at the sounds of shuffling in the apartment, the curse and the yell, and she lets out a short scream of her own at the sound of a gunshot. With her free hand over her mouth, Barbara tucks Theodore under her chin as she forces herself into the corner as best she can, until she can’t move anymore, tears prickling on the corner of her eyes and leaving streaks down her cheeks.

“You ruin everything, you bastard!” Adams yells, and Barbara squeezes her eyes shut. Plaster shatters and there’s a sound like a growl, she isn’t sure. There’s another thud, a loud one, and then it’s quiet. She opens her eyes again, wide behind her glasses even in the dark, shaky breath coming out through her nose despite how quiet she tries to be. She can’t hear Adams cursing, or talking to someone on the phone, or shuffling around, and perhaps that’s scarier than anything.

The floorboards creak, and Theodore’s ear flops against her nose.

She takes in another shaky breath, eyes glued to the closet door like she’s forgotten how to blink. There’s another voice, this one softer, at first, gentler, less threatening like Adams’ was before. But then he’d used gentle tones right up until he’d grabbed her wrist in the car and said it was time Gordon realized the true nature of his city.

“Barbara?”

She doesn’t recognize the voice, so she only flattens her palm over her mouth and doesn’t move. Her dad should be here.

“Barbara,” they repeat, firmer this time, and she can hear them move about the apartment. There’s a groan as the couch shifts across the floor. The steps stop in front of the closet door, and for that second she doesn’t dare even breathe as her vision blurs in the dark.

But she screams as the door opens, screams bloody murder, screams louder than she ever has in her life, and Barbara blinks through tears as Batman comes into view. The sight of him doesn’t quite put her at ease, even as he drops to his haunches, makes himself smaller.

Barbara sniffs, though she makes no move to go near him or loosen her grip on Theodore.

“Barbara, are you hurt?” he asks, but it’s not in the growling voice she’s heard him use with her dad on the roof, even if she’s not supposed to be up there. He’d taken her there once before, let her turn on the Batsignal and waited for him to give her the batch of Christmas cookies she’d made for him (with dad’s help). Batman had looked down at her and taken the bin like it was something precious, but then he’d smiled at her, and her father said he’d never done that in front of him before. 

She loosens slowly, knees going slack and shoulders drooping from where they’ve been hunched. Batman holds out a hand to her and she watches it.

“I need to know if you’re okay.”

“I want to go home,” she tells him. He nods.

“We can do that,” he says. “I need you to come with me first though, alright? We need to get you out of here.”

Theodore’s ear flops again and her foot knocks against her backpack. “Where’s my dad?”

“He’s just outside,” Batman says, tilting his head to the other room. “He’s right outside the window; you can take a look if you want.”

Barbara moves to him slowly, warily, and lets Batman lift her into his arms, shifting her to rest against his shoulder as his other hand reaches for her bag. Her free hand, the one not tucking Theodore between them clings to his cowl, fingers curling into the material as best they can. She sniffs, smearing tears across it and not bothering to wipe her face with her hands.

Batman shushes her quietly, even though he’s stiff, rigid, like his experience with children is limited. Her grip tightens as they move, and Batman turns enough to let her see out the window and down onto the street. Her dad stands arguing with someone else, and she lets out a small sigh of relief at the sight of him.

“Let’s go see him,” he says, voice softer yet somehow stiff gruff, like he’s still getting used to it. Barbara lets her head rest against his shoulder, and as he picks his way back out of the apartment he tries to block Adams from view where he’s left him unconscious.

Batman pats her back with his free hand, the gesture slightly awkward, and her backpack thumps against his knees as he carries her down the stairs. The moment she spots her father she lets out a loud _daddy!_ in his ear, and squirms in Batman’s arms as he rushes over, nudging Harvey and others out of the way in his hurry. 

“Barbara, Barbara,” he says, and she nearly propels herself out of Batman’s arms.

Her father is warm and smells a little like smoke and sweat as he wraps her up in his arms, hand cupping the back of her head she winds her arms around his shoulders.

“You’re squishing me, daddy,” she says into the collar of his jacket, and he loosens his hold enough for her to adjust her glasses. His eyes are misty when she looks up at him, and he tucks loose hair back out of her face and shakes his head. Barbara leans against his shoulder again with a sigh, stuffed rabbit tucked against her chest, and looks up at Batman as her dad turns his attention back to him with a soft _thank you_. 

Batman smiles down at her.


	3. held at gunpoint. (tim)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No 3. MY WAY OR THE HIGHWAY  
>  **Manhandled** | **Forced to their Knees** | **Held at Gunpoint**

“You didn’t have to come with me, you know,” Tim had said as he’d gotten out of the car, the midday sun blazing down around them during what was a surprisingly sunny day in Gotham. Beside him, Bruce had adjusted his cufflinks with a soft shrug and said “it’s not too much trouble” that had been that.

Of course, there are a few key phrases they don’t utter in their line of work, because doing so is just beginning the universe to prove them wrong.

Like now, for instance, as a couple of armed gunmen turn the First National Bank of Gotham into their new stomping ground. They aren’t wearing clown masks, at least, which isn’t as much of a relief as Tim had hoped it would be. Instead they have an array of cheap looking animal masks from Party City: a rabbit, a lion, a bear, and a chicken. There’s a loose sort of organization to them, like they haven’t decided on a final pecking order, though he would assume the one with the lion mask is likely their leader from the self-assured way they carry themselves.

“Get over here,” the Rabbit grouses to one of the tellers who’s thus far only been able to cry and shake, shoving her toward the other two; though Tim can spot lines of fear on their faces, he also gets the feeling this isn’t the first time they’ve been in this scenario. He can’t imagine it gets any easier.

“I count four,” he says out of the corner of his mouth as he leans back into the counter beside Bruce. The heel of his sneaker squeaks against the floor, and he pauses to see if it will draw attention to them. “Not counting us and the tellers, I’ve got ten hostages.”

“They’re nervous,” Bruce says, and Tim tenses when the first teller shrieks at the wordless yells from the Rabbit before he laughs. Oracle has to be privy to the situation along with Jim, but there has yet to be any sort of back and forth with the robbers and the GCPD. Batman and Red Robin aren’t exactly going to be making any appearances either. “That makes them sloppy and that makes them dangerous.”

This isn’t overly promising: Dick’s almost two hours away in Blüdhaven, and they haven’t heard from Jason in about two weeks. It strikes Tim that at the moment the only ones currently available are Stephanie and Damian, and they are decidedly _not_ getting along.

He withholds a groan.

The Bear and Chicken reconvene in the corner, hostages flinching in turn as they trace their guns over the floor in lazy circles. The Lion stomps across the counter in the middle of the room, kicking deposit slips across the floor.

“You all know how this works!” he booms. (What’s unfortunate is that most of Gotham probably does.) He’s too edgy, likely pumped up on adrenaline which only puts everyone further at risk. This is a mess and it’s about to get messier. Tim can hear sirens, finally.

He jumps down from the counter, breath heavy and audible behind his mask.

“Nothing funny, no one plays hero, and maybe everybody gets to go home in time for dinner.”

Tim almost wants to laugh at that, but both he and Bruce tense as the Lion points the business end of a pistol at the other hostages, slowly panning over them all. It’s a small arms and he looks too lanky to put up much of a physical fight, but that doesn’t make him any less dangerous. The Rabbit crouches before the tellers, antagonizing them, and the Bear and Chicken are more methodic as they step away from their corner, likely lookouts. There haven’t been any ransom or money demands as of yet, but Tim’s been around long enough to know this isn’t always about money. For some it’s pure notoriety, getting their name out there even if it comes with a rap sheet.

He shifts only a little, flattening his palm against the floor, and the Bear cocks his head. One of them whistles, but it’s hard to discern who beneath the plastic. The Lion whirls on his heel with a resounding squeal.

“Well if it isn’t Gotham’s big man,” the Bear crows as he comes to stand before he and Bruce, allowing a few feet of space between them as he falls to a crouch. Out of the corner of his eye, Tim can see the hard line of his jaw, the twitch in his eyelids as Batman bleeds through.

The Lion wasn’t wrong when he said it wasn’t time for any heroics. Bruce has to watch his next movement and then the one after that unless he wants to give himself away. So does Tim, because the last thing they need is this circus act putting two-and-two together. They can’t blow their cover.

“Where’s the bodyguard?” he asks, and his voice has a deeper timbre.

Bruce doesn’t move. Tim can barely breathe as he runs through the back up plan to his back up plan.

“You want money, not lives,” Bruce says, words even and measured. “Let these people go and I can get you to it.”

The Bear laughs and the others shortly follow suit. He clicks his tongue, shaking his head.

“You got it all wrong, it’s not the money I want,” he says. His breathing is ragged beneath his mask, pistol swaying between his knees like this is all just a game to him. Maybe it is. Tim can feel the moment his gaze falls on him. “On the other hand…”

Tim Drake’s reaction time is only minutely slower than Red Robin’s, and the only reason he doesn’t struggle as much as he usually would is the Rabbit pointing his gun at another one of the hostages. Even if he can’t see him, he can sense Bruce tensing, about two seconds from pouncing himself.

He lets out a soft _shit_ as he’s dragged and forced onto his knees, and when he looks up he’s met by staring down the barrel of a gun.

It isn’t his first time, but in most other instances he’s been armed himself, has some sort of armor interlaced in his suit. Other times he can fight back, and now it would be too questionable if suddenly Tim Drake and Red Robin move in the same way. Bruce can’t do anything either, because the people of Gotham might be foolish, but they’re not stupid. For what this branch lacks in safe banking, it makes up for in its plethora of security cameras and footage that will likely leak to the press in a few hours’ time. In the far corner, he watches one swivel slowly from left to right as a small touch of reassurance, and then he focuses on the gun being pointed at his forehead.

“Let him go,” Bruce says, voice gone from even to barely concealed anger. Tim doesn’t dare glance back at him.

“I don’t think you’re really in the position to make demands there,” the Bear says; maybe Tim had the pecking order wrong. “As for the kid… I don’t think he has any room to talk, either, do you think?”

The gun shifts, bobbing in front of him. Tim plants his hands on his thighs and carefully picks through his options. The camera swivels again and he softly implores Oracle to hurry up if she can.

A lot of things happen at once after that: the glass in the skylight overhead shatters, distracting both the Lion and Chicken as shards of glass shower down around them, and Tim barely hears Bruce’s yell over the screams of the hostages. He hears the shot before he feels it, ears ringing before the pain erupts across his shoulder like he’s been branded.

Being shot once never prepares you for the second time or the time after that. Tim gets out a gasp and then a yell of his own before he’s hit with a wall of muscle, and he struggles to catch his breath as Bruce shields his body with his own. There’s blood trickling through his fingers where he struggles to stem the flow. He can’t tell if there’s an exit wound.

“Oh man, they let the zoo out?” he hears as the ringing in his ears subsides, and through the hair in his face he can make out Spoiler’s leg before she kicks the Lion’s out from under him. “Everyone better behave; it’s Take Your Kid to Work Day and I’d hate to be embarrassed in front of junior.”

With a scoff, Robin comes into view as Bruce gently allows Tim upright. He lets out a short “check the hostages,” to which Damian pauses and then nods, glancing at his wounded shoulder. When he looks down, he can see bits of glass embedded in Bruce’s palms.

Tim lets out a breath through his nose, and pulls his hand away to take a peek at the damage, though he can’t tell the extent of it. All he knows is that it throbs as he goes to prop himself against the counter again, glass crunching beneath his heels in streaks of blood.

The Rabbit is facedown on the floor, courtesy of Robin, and for his sake, Tim hopes he’s just unconscious.“Hey B?” he gets out, head falling back against the counter with a _thunk_. Bruce stops in the middle of giving them both a once-over to meet his eyes. Tim almost grins. “Way to jinx it.”


	4. caged. (dick)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No 4. RUNNING OUT OF TIME  
>  **Caged** | Buried Alive | Collapsed Building

The room smells of rancid meat. 

It’s that thought that Dick comes circling back to, along with the ache blossoming around his shoulders and down his arms from where they’re wrenched behind him. His gaze circles the room slowly, his good eye taking in the minute details: a scuff on the floor by the heavy metal door; a table with tools he can’t quite make out in the near dark; the brown smudge he’s been around long enough to recognize as a dried blood stain. Above him a fluorescent light buzzes, and at the sniff beside him he has to crane his neck to get so much as a glance at them.

He recognizes her, vaguely, in the sense one does spotting the same stranger at the bus stop. Not enough for them to have any real significance in his life, but enough he might notice for a fleeting moment they’re gone before thinking much of it.

She trembles, both in a mix of fear and the cold, he thinks, mousey brown hair caught in her eyes and the lime green tape stuck over her mouth. From what he can make of it, there’s a bright red messy scrawl of HA HA across it.

“Hey,” he murmurs, gentle enough not to startle her but enough to get her attention. She shoots him a wide-eyed glance, which he does his best to meet despite his swollen face and crack in his lens where the white of his eye bleeds through. “Don’t let looks deceive you. I’m gonna get you out of here, okay?”

His tone isn’t as uplifting as he hoped it would be, and, if anything, it feels like the shaky nod she gives him is for both of their sakes.

Dick takes a deep breath in through his nose as he rights himself and then immediately regrets it as the scent turns his stomach.

What turns it even more so is watching the door slowly open inward as the Joker parades himself in.

The terrified noises beside him take on a fever pitch, a muffled shriek behind duct tape, and Dick already knows being told to stay calm is much easier said than done.

Joker tuts and he recognizes her, now; Ashley Hudson, one of the school teachers at Gotham City School No. Seven. She’d spearheaded a fundraiser for more school supplies, most notably those for the arts, and Bruce had signed a check with such an ease it would have made most peoples’ blood curdle.

Dick can’t imagine why she was singled out, but then Joker’s never been overly picky with the lives he toys with.

Joker’s inhale is disturbingly, mockingly, loud.

“Ahhh… nothing like a good ol’ chop shop, wouldn’t you say?” he asks, ever unsettling grin pulling at the scars at the corners of his mouth. He tugs on his lapels, and Dick tugs gently on the restraints again, testing them. “I mean that quite literally too. There’s really something about the buzz of a saw as a lamb is led to slaughter that really gets the motor revving.” Joker crouches until he can grab a fistful of Dick’s hair and yank him upright while he cackles. Strands come loose in skittering little bursts of pain across his scalp. “Do you see what I did there? A little word play, if you will.”

“I can think of a few things I’d rather be doing with my time,” Dick says, and he can feel Ashley’s wide gaze flickering between the two of them. Joker scowls at him for a brief moment, and then shoves his head back hard enough it knocks against the wall as he moves to stand.

“Now that’s just rude. If I’d known I would have gotten such an attitude I wouldn’t have invited you here in the first place.”

Joker adjusts his pants and crouches before Ashley instead. He glances back at Dick and clucks his tongue.

“Do you hear that, Ms. Hudson?” he asks, and his fingers dip into his jacket in a way that makes Dick anxious. “Such insubordination—tell me, what’s your favorite disciplinary tactic? Sharing the talking stick and discussing feelings? Writing _I’m sorry_ on the board a hundred times? Corporal punishment, hmm?”

Ashley drags in a breath through her nose. Dick scowls and twists his wrists against his bonds, dislocating his thumb with a hiss he tries to swallow down.

Both he and Ashley eye the flower pinned to his lapel.

“Why, an old friend of mine used to say talking about our feelings was a healthy outlet—a real _nutcase_ , that one. Always going on about Freud or something or other. I’m something of a head doctor myself, wouldn’t you think?”

Joker laughs and Ashley glances his way out of the corner of her eye. He grits his teeth and scraps skin off his wrist as he works to free it.

“You’re monologuing too much,” Dick says with a sniff. He rolls his head back on his shoulders, drawing attention away from Ashley. Joker can poke and prod him all he wants, so long as it distracts him from Ashley until help arrives.

“And you’re interrupting me,” he shoots back.

Rather than rise to the bait, he asks: “Are you going to kill us or just wax poetic?”

Joker’s grin is all teeth and unease. His restraint catches on his knuckles.

“Oh I could, of course! A knife to gullet, splittin’ ya like a fish or one between the eyes… I’m open to either.” He lips twist as if in consideration. “Hmm, yes, it’s simple but it lacks a certain sort of… panache, wouldn’t you say?”

Dick watches him with his one good eye.

Joker pats down his pockets.

“There’s just something so _lackluster_ about it. It leaves the same mark as your boring, average Joe who lives his boring, average life. Anyone can do it, you know? It cheapens it.”

Dick watches as he makes to stand again. He starts working on freeing his other hand despite the numbing sensation in his arm.

“You see, it’s all too easy, killing,” Joker says. “Anyone can do it, but not everyone understands that there’s an art to it.”

“Yeah, you’re a regular Jackson Pollock.” Joker pauses to cast a glance back at them with a wink.

“Why thank you! Maybe that lil blow to the noggin’ did knock some sense into you after all.” He trails his fingers over the table with an exaggerated hum, considering. “The last time I dealt with a little birdie who stepped out of line I cracked him open. It’s nice to think some of you _do_ have manners.”

Dick bristles and Ashley only gasps and trembles as Joker faces them again with a twirl, pivoting on his heel and brandishing a bolt gun.

“Time for another lesson!” he says with too much glee. “Tell me, do either one of you know what this is? Ms. Hudson, please speak up and use your words.”

Ashley sniffs. Dick’s glove catches on his restraint. Joker waves the bolt gun in the air.

“ _Eeeeeent_ , you’re both incorrect! A pity, really. I was hoping for more participation from the class. That is fifty percent of your grade, you know.” Joker toys with it some more; there’s the unmistakable stench of rotten meat and blood. “This little beauty here, why, what a device! Pop a lil piggy with it and he’s down and out for the count, hacked up into bacon before he even knows what hit him!”

He outright giggles. Dick can hear Ashley trying to take a deep breath and failing.

“What a gimmick. Let Wilbur live a life of luxury, getting fat and rolling around in shit, and then one day… _bam_! He isn’t even dead before he’s led off to slaughter, you know that? He’s off in dreamland before getting that ultimate dirt nap.”

Joker leans back against the table, looking all too pleased with himself.

“So, my caged little pigs, your final exam is Pass/Fail with open notes! Only _ooooone_ question.” He beams and cocks the bolt into place. “Which one of you wants to go first?”

Dick frees himself, springing forward at the same time Joker pulls the trigger.


	5. on the run. (damian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No 5. WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?  
>  **On the Run** | Failed Escape | **Rescue**

He has to move or they’re going to catch him.

Damian has not stopped running.

A series of tiny little cuts dot the heels of his palms from where he’d fallen and scrapped up his knees as well. He allows himself to catch his breath for a split second before he’s scrambling to his feet and taking off again. He can hear movement behind him and scattered voices, but he can’t make out the words.

His feet pound against the ground and out of the corner of his eye he catches the glimpse of a figure surging forward.

Instinct tells him to keep moving, because stopping means death and death is unacceptable.

His lungs burn and Damian forces himself to move faster even as his palms bleed and his step falters in blind terror, the likes of which he has never felt before. Damian doesn’t feel fear. He gets fear and failure beaten out of him. He has a sword placed in his hand and if he doesn’t hold a proper stance a rap to the back of the knuckles is seen as a kindness. His mother watches and he remembers looking at her with a sense of betrayal when she made no move to stop it.

Behind him, Talia tells him to run and then she screams. Damian’s never heard his mother scream before.

There’s a voice beside him, gaining on him, telling him to slow down, and he barely has the chance to drag in another breath before someone is bodily throwing themselves at him.

“Dam—!”

They make for his wrists, fingers closing around them and forcing them on the ground on either side of his head. He kicks his feet, scrambling for purchase, some kind of leverage, and from the way they hold themselves it’s clear the man above him doesn’t have a clear plan of attack. They shift and he finds his opening, driving his knees up and into their stomach in a surge of adrenaline.

The man—he can’t be a member of the League, because none of them would be so miserably sloppy—grunts and loosens his hold, and Damian takes the opportunity to kick at them again. He rolls into a crouch, and then springs to his feet, mindful of the other figures quickly gaining, though he can’t make out their features.

His breathing is ragged as he pats himself down in search of a weapon of any kind, something, and chastises himself for his failure.

He will be chastised otherwise, later, and Damian is loath to think of what his grandfather’s tactics will be this time. Whether his mother will step in or not.

Failure is death and neither are unacceptable.

Damian takes a step back into more of a solid fighting stance as the figures take shape; one is large, a bulky mass as if injection with venom, another lingers beside them, wavering, while the last, the most lithe one, is that one that shifts and makes any move toward him. The closest to him, the one Damian knocked the wind out of, has gotten to his feet. He says something he can’t quite make out fully, though he understands flank.

At that he moves again, minutely so as to not telegraph his next, gravel shifting under his foot.

“Dam—?” one of them repeats again, and he narrows his eyes.

“Got—good.”

There is a slow nod, and one of the figures coalesces into something more solid, tangible. He cannot make out any eyes or defining facial features, and even so would not trust them. They hold up their hands, a move falsely placating. The man he kicked doesn’t come near him again.

The man in the back, the large one, shifts forward and then his grandfather is glowering down at him. His eyes bore and burn into his skull and Damian stills.

He cannot hear his mother.

“Easy.”

“Need you—calm down. Can—?”

“What did you do?” Damian roars, and thinks he needs the hilt of a blade in his hands, something to better defend himself. For his searching efforts he comes up with a grappling line and sharp bit of metal fashioned into a bat that part of him recognizes and another recoils at.

“D—?”

“Scare—you got—”

He should and can get away. There is a ledge behind him, and if he throws himself at the right angle he should be able to get away, leave them reeling for a moment before they have time to recover. He does not know what he will find, but he is sure he can survive the fall if need be, and he doesn’t have this line for nothing.

Damian pivots swiftly, ready to throw himself and—

“Don’t let him—!”

“No!”

His foot has barely left the ground before he’s grabbed again, and he only has time to grit his teeth before being thrown backwards against a form that grunts as they hit the gravel. Arms wrap around his torso like a vice, followed by legs pinning his down, and he all but growls as his arms are crossed and held against his chest. Panic sets in, crawling up his back and over his shoulders before going off in his chest like a supernova.

“Got you—”

Damian struggles against his bonds, rage warring with panic, and he makes to throw his head back when their grip tightens.

He roars and then he screams. It feels like the lining of his throat is being shredded.

“Here—with—me.”

“Is he—?”

“—toxin—”

He thrashes as best he can. Muscle ache sets in as the adrenaline wanes and gives way to panic and terror.

“—in?”

“Safe—with me—”

There’s a warm cheek pressing against his temple, murmuring something that’s supposed to be gentle but he can’t make out. Damian squeezes his eyes shut and can feel something burst open in his chest.

“What’s—saying?”

As he’s held pinned against the man’s chest, his struggles turn more into twitches, a futile jerk of a stuck arm or leg as they wait for him to tire himself out. He keeps his eyes closed lest he find his grandfather looming over him, and he breaks into a low murmur as he awaits a blow that doesn’t come. The word baba slips out once or twice, he knows that much, and the grip on him shifts. It’s still tight, but in a manner that’s more comforting than restraining which only leads to dizzying confusion.

“Breathe—with me—got you—”

A tremble sets into his shoulders, and Damian opens his eyes to a view of legs intertwined with his, and arms decked out in black and black wrapped around him. When he glances upwards he finds Ra's al Ghul’s distorted features as his father keeps his distance.

Richard holds onto him and tells him he’s safe, though his voice wavers.

He doesn’t feel like he is.

Damian closes his eyes.


	6. get it out. (jason.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No 6. PLEASE….  
>  **“Get it Out”** | No More | **“Stop, please”**
> 
> for context: this takes place right at the tail end of [the pit of tartarus.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26906719)  
> (you don't necessarily have to read that; just know that basically jason's being haunted by the pit.)

Jason sits, watching with a glaze to his eyes Dick can’t quite place, and on occasion his gaze flickers away and then back. The way he holds himself is tenser than usual, and even Bruce turns his attention back to Jason a few times while briefing them on Two Face’s latest movements.

From the looks of it, Jason has maybe caught two words.

Dick frowns and makes to get his attention, and at the same instance watches him flinch away.

Jason doesn’t often let Dick in his space, at most allowing the occasional knock to his shoulder like they’re still brothers. Now Dick so much as shifts in his chair and he’s recoiling, staring at him as if Dick’s about to lurch across the table and strike.

When Bruce calls his name it’s like he’s been dropped back into reality, jerking in the way one does in a muscle spasm and on the cusp of sleep. Their briefing turns into tense silence, both he and Bruce staring Jason down as his fingers curl into the arms of his chair. Were it not for the gloves, he’s sure his knuckles would be white.

Whatever Jason’s listening to, it isn’t them. From the looks of it, it isn’t overly pleasant, and Dick can’t recall the last time he saw him… scared. Terrified.

From the way he’s staring at them, Dick likens it to listening to someone from the bottom of a well, voices and faces distorted in a manner that your brain tries to trick you into believing it isn’t real.

“Did you… catch all that?” Dick ventures, and Jason clears his throat thickly. He nods before his focus shifts again. His gaze is unfocused in a way that’s reminiscent of the drunk and disorderlies Dick had been called to more times than he cared to count, or the glazed look from someone else as he only prayed he wouldn’t have to call over a paramedic to break out the Narcan.

This isn’t that, though.

Jason gets to his feet, and he’s already on the move before Dick’s gotten the chance to round the table.

“Jay,” he calls, and he can feel Bruce frowning at him because damn the man if he’ll make an effort to step in too. (He supposes he can’t entirely blame him, seeing as their relationship is tenuous enough as it is. The last thing they need is for Jason to say he’s feeling smothered and that’s the last Bruce sees of him.)

“‘M fine,” Jason mutters, adjusting the collar of his jacket and making a beeline for his bike. His pace is too clipped and he holds himself too stiffly. By the time Dick catches up he’s already on the next platform. He passes him a backwards glance at most, sneaking one over his shoulder. 

When he glances away again Dick senses his opening and reaches over to grab his shoulder. Jason twists like he’s being branded, and Dick holds up his hands.

“Jay, you’re freezing,” he says and Jason’s head jerks, his pupils dilated and gaze unfocused. He doesn’t recall Jason’s eyes being green before. There’s a glimmer of something sinister and then he blinks and rights himself again.

“I’m—I’m fine. Don’t touch me.”

Jason sets about adjusting his jacket again, then tugging at his gloves as if he can pull them up any higher. His defenses drop for a split second and Dick can see the tremors lancing up his arms before he clenches his hands into fists. He frowns at him in a way that Jason would usually mutter something about him hovering, but he doesn’t. Instead, his gaze wanders away again, tracing along something on the rock face over Dick’s shoulder. Eventually it circles back, but it’s like he’s looking right through him.

Behind him, Dick can feel Bruce approaching, though he doesn’t say anything. Jason lists, body flickering like two cuts of film stitched together as he jolts.

“Jason?” Bruce tries, cowl around his shoulders.

He doesn’t answer. His fingers curl around nothing. He stares at something on the far wall, where the rock and metal curve up toward the array of bats and stalactites. Jason does not shrug them off, does not hiss a few choice words between his teeth and then leave in a cloud of exhaust and squeal of tires.

When Jason turns his gaze back to him, it cuts Dick to his core.

Jason stares back at him with unbridled horror, the likes of which he’s seen on him before.

“How do you guys not hear that?” he asks, bafflement flickers across his features. His next breath is audible, and Dick and Bruce make eye contact in the second he glances away.

Bruce beats Dick to it: “What do you hear?”

“Everything,” Jason whispers. “I hear it. All the time. There’s…”

His fingers twitch and he shakes his head.

“I think it’s in me. Been in me. I can’t get it out. I tried.”

(He remembers their talks before, about Pit madness, about how the Pit itself was like a disease. No one who goes in truly comes out whole, not really. But then they haven’t spoken of it again.)

Dick’s never seen this side of Jason—or at least, not in years. Jason doesn’t do vulnerability, least of all in front of Bruce and Dick, of all people.

But now Jason stands in front of them, shaking like he’s been stitched together and coming apart at the seams. 

He takes a step back as Dick does forward, reaching for him as he wanes and falters. Even beneath the glove he feels like ice. Something shifts beneath his palm, and Dick can’t convince himself it’s muscle as it slithers and coils. He lets go with a start, and then Jason’s free hand shoots out to hold his wrist in a viselike grip. Jason’s pupils are blown wide and there’s a pull at the corner of his mouth like he means to laugh, with some high, shrill, pained noise.

“Please,” he gets out through his teeth, and Dick can only imagine what it’s taken out of him to ask that of them. “I’m not going back.  _ Please _ .”

His arms tense in another tremor as the glaze takes hold in his eyes again. A glimmer of something Dick doesn’t recognize blinks back at them. Jason jolts like a convulsion, and terror gives way to resignation, to exhaustion, and then back to horror with an unholy sound from the back of his throat.

Bruce catches him before he hits the ground, both down on their knees, and that’s when Jason starts to scream.


End file.
